Manhattan at Twilight, Seen from the Palisades

Who would believe the city could be so lovely?

The streets gashes of golden fire,

the towers glowing like blocks of radium,

filled with a rich, cool burning,

and the endless stream of the traffic

that flows by the glittering river

like a necklace strung with beads of light

and draped on the shoulders of the city; ~

an island of electric magic to fill with awe

the mind and heart of some far voyager.

(June, 1965 ~ Hoboken)

Earth Apples: The Poetry of Edward Abbey

With original artwork by Michael McCurdy

To see more of this book or to purchase it:

http://xrl.in/1wou

For my friends in the city for the fair.

J*

Distich

(From the Persian Of Oumara, 10th Century)

Ah, would that I could hide within my songs

And, every time you sang them, kiss your lips.

Black Marigolds & Coloured Stars.

Translated by E. Powys Mathers, Introduction by Tony Harrison.

Anvil Press, 2004. Softcover. $10.00

Skin

This skin is leather black with time,

this skin is tough like old rooster flesh,

this skin won’t give like poulet,

you bite this skin you likely to eat crow,

this skin has wailed its own symphony

of blue black sorrow, tough like this,

this skin tasted the salt crystals,

licked them up and recorded the pain,

this skin’s been turned inside out, left to dry,

this skin’s swallowed the blast of sun,

collected the bite of January air

and still there, still there,

this skin has smelt the acrid smoke

of burning flesh, hanging there against

a new day, sniffed it, felt its layering

of old skin, soot carrying centuries

of suffering, this skin is washed with flow

of menstrual blood, love juice, old semen,

bitter spit, loose shit, every ugliness

dumped into the earth been through this skin,

this is no tenderloin, prime cut skin,

you bite me, you likely to eat crow,

this skin is a walking museum,

when you see me coming read me

when you see me coming read me.

One day I will come to the river.

Oh, love will touch this skin,

and I will rise, ebony glow and tender

crossing that river to the other side.

(more…)

White, White Collars

We work in this building and we are hideous

in the fluorescent light, you know our clothes

woke up this morning and swallowed us like jewels

and ride up and down the elevators, filled with us,

turning and returning like the spray of light that goes

around dance-halls among the dancing fools.

My office smells like a theory, but here one weeps

to see the goodness of the world laid bare

and rising with the government on its lips,

the alphabet congealing in the air

around our heads. But in my belly’s flames

someone is dancing, calling me by many names

that are secret and filled with light and rise

and break, and I see my previous lives.

Poems Collected and New: The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations

Millenium General Assembly, Denis Johnson. HarperCollins, 1995.

First Edition. $50.00

The Journey

I think of the journey women make when they begin to emerge from the daily duties of motherhood into new ventures. And, as children mature, they begin their own journey away (thereby allowing mothers a bit of space and time to emerge)…that doesn’t mean the transition is not painful.    J*

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice-

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

“Mend my life!”

each voice cried.

But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do-

determined to save

the only life you could save.

New and Selected Poems: Volume One, Mary Oliver.

Beacon Press, Boston. Later softcover printing. (New) $11.00